Every Monday Night
by AppleJackDaniels
Summary: "Therapy session with Dr. Hopper," she would tell Neal as she slipped out of the door, stealing her way in the moonlight on her trek to the Jolly Roger. "It's just a one-time thing," she would tell Killian as she crept into his cabin, falling into his bed, seeking a comforting warmth she hadn't felt since the last time she'd been with him. "This won't happen again."
1. Chapter 1

She shouldn't be doing this.

A gust blew through the lower deck of the _Jolly Roger_ and Emma fisted her hands in the lapels of her coat as she pulled it tightly against her chest, trying to soothe the chill that seeped into her bones. It was an unappeasable coldness, an all-consuming void of darkness and emptiness that left her bereft of happiness, joy, pleasure. She shivered against the frigid air that swept across her skin.

_Damn him._

It all started in Neverland when she'd foolishly kissed Killian, when she'd fallen into his bed, when she'd woken up next to him the following morning.

_Fucking Neverland._

It wasn't supposed to happen, not like this. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, a carnal act driven from physical need and desperation. _It was just sex. _But it'd been so much more than that, so much more than Emma would allow herself to admit. It'd been a comfort, a beacon of light in the darkness that shrouded her life. It gave her something tangible to hold onto, a fleeting moment of euphoria and ecstasy that distracted her from the very real and very terrifying prospect of losing Henry to the Lost Boys forever. Killian had been there to give her comfort on those nights when reality became overwhelming, holding her to his chest as he pressed gentle kisses into her hair, offering words of reassurance and encouragement. He'd always been there for her and never once left her side, letting her draw strength from him when her own reservoir had been exhausted and depleted.

It was more than anyone had ever done for her before. He felt something for her, cared for her, was utterly devoted to her, would do whatever he could to help her. He wanted to make her _happy. _

Emma didn't know what to do with that – she'd never had that before.

And then Neal came back and it all became so very confusing, her heart tugged in two directions. Dormant emotions that she'd furiously bottled up came bubbling to fruition, hitting her with a disorienting and lethal ferocity she hadn't been prepared for. It baffled her, muddied her judgment, and she'd fallen back into her old habits, back into Neal's loving and open arms. It was supposed to feel safe, to feel right, a place where she'd always known she'd belonged.

But it wasn't any of those things.

She figured it'd come back with time, when the shock of his survival and newly revealed lineage wore off. They could be a family – her, Neal, and Henry. A family that she'd never had, a family that she'd always _wanted_. Then she would feel happy with him, would feel comfortable trusting him with her love, with her heart. There had been a time where she loved Neal recklessly and without abandon, a time where she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

But that'd been a decade ago, in another life, and Emma just had to warm herself up to the idea of being with Neal. She owed it to herself, owed it to Neal, owed it to Henry, to at least _try. _It'd take some getting used to, but, Emma told herself, she could find her happiness with him again – it would all come back in a matter of time.

Only, it never came back, not fully.

She gave it time – she gave it days, weeks, months – but it _never came back._

She loved Neal once and she loved him still, but it was a tainted love, tarnished with feelings of betrayal and desertion. A broken love, irreparable and unrecognizable. But she tried, dammit, she _tried. _Tried to move past it, to mend her broken heart and shattered walls, to piece together the fragments of their relationship. She gave it everything she had, she fought like hell to fix that love, but always, _always, _her mind would drift elsewhere, back to Neverland, back to the person who understood her best.

Emma hated herself for it.

She'd been intimate with Neal, tormented with images of vividly blue eyes flashing in her head, the phantom touch of cool metal against her flushed skin, an echo of an accented voice whispering sweet nothings in her ear. She couldn't tune it out, couldn't tune _him _out – the low drawl of his voice and his ever-present smirk lingered in the back of her mind. He was her addiction, a bad habit she couldn't kick, and now she found herself loitering outside of his door, impatiently waiting for her fix, like she did every Monday night.

She shouldn't be doing this.

Emma _knew_ she shouldn't do doing this, that is was _wrong_ and _deceitful_, but god help her, she couldn't stay away. She broke it off with Killian back in Neverland, after they rescued Neal, ending their short liaison before it'd had the time to blossom into something beautiful.

"It's better this way," she had told him, because Killian was a pirate and she was a mother, and she wasn't capable of giving him what he needed, what he wanted and deserved.

She had meant it, honestly, she did. And yet, despite knowing he desired something she couldn't give, wouldn't _ever_ be able to give, she found herself lingering by his door on some idle Monday night. She was scheduled to have a session with Dr. Hopper, and Emma had planned on going to his office, truly, she did. But her legs had moved of their own volition, carrying her instead to the _Jolly Roger_; her hand had clenched automatically as she knocked on his door; her body had jumped impulsively as she threw her arms around his neck and crushed her mouth against his. She'd lost herself in his touch, his gaze, his smell, his presence. She was drunk off of him, greedily soaking in and taking everything he offered her, finally feeling satisfied and sated.

Emma came that night, again and again, her toes going numb, her fingers tingling, her head buzzing, her center aching. And then it was over and she rolled off of the bed, hastily throwing her clothes on, face flushed, the feel of his release coating her underwear, the sweet burn of having had him inside of her. She ran out the door, muttering something about "mistake", "one-time thing", "this never happened".

Then it happened again the next Monday. And the next. And the next.

So began their affair. Her deception tainted her, becoming the first spot of darkness that embittered her heart, growing larger and more threatening each time she fell into Killian's bed. And now, as she stood wavering in front of his door, she could feel the last vestige of goodness in her heart turn black, succumbing to the darkness that swirled within, swallowing her whole with promises of loneliness.

She shouldn't be here, shouldn't be on this damn ship.

"Therapy sessions with Dr. Hopper," she would tell Neal as she slipped out of the door, stealing her way in the moonlight as she trekked to the _Jolly Roger_.

"It's just a one-time thing," she would tell Killian as she crept into his cabin, falling into his bed, seeking a comforting warmth she hadn't felt since the last time she'd been with him. "This won't happen again."

Lies.

All lies.

Lies and deceit and betrayal and treachery. Killian had been right – she _would _make a hell of a pirate.

She shouldn't be doing this. Why was she _here?_

It wasn't too late to turn on her heel and go back home, go back to her apartment with Neal and Henry, and leave this all behind her. Leave _him _behind. Forever. Finally end their affair, their dalliance.

She'd never wanted anything less.

The door suddenly swung open, a gust of warm air rushing out and blanketing her face.

"Are you just going to stand there all evening or did you plan on actually knocking?" his lilting voice broke her out of her trance.

Emma stared up at him, the wolfish smile lighting up his face, his too-blue eyes alight with pleasure, with _happiness_, just because she was there, because he knew why she was there, why she would _always _be there. Every Monday night.

Therapy sessions.

_Ha._

Her heart seized painfully in her chest when he casually leaned against the doorframe, idly fiddling with the curve of his hook as he watched her expectantly. Hopefully. His eyes were always so intense, so full of some sort of brewing emotion. He would look at her with those vividly blue, swarming eyes of his, leveling his passionate gaze with hers, wordlessly communicating a thousand different emotions she stirred within him.

He stared at her like she was fascinating and wonderful, a priceless work of art that the pirate couldn't help but be drawn to and dazzled by. He looked at her like she was someone deserving of love and happiness and all those wonderful other things that he wanted her to have, that he wanted to _give _her.

But she wasn't deserving of any of those, and mostly certainly not from him. Much like Killian didn't deserve to be some consolation prize, a way to warm her bed when she felt cold.

And then there was Neal… He loved her, he was kind to her, he trusted her. Emma's stomach twisted into painful knots.

She shouldn't be here; she shouldn't be doing this.

Emma couldn't find her voice, trapped beneath the lump in her throat, choking her as it suppressed her air, crushing her lungs with the weight of her culpability.

Upon her prolonged silence, Killian scrutinized her with a closer eye, the brightness in his demeanor fading as he scanned her face for any intimation of her feelings. He motioned with his chin for her to enter his room, standing to the side as he held the door open. Emma gave him a strained half-smile as she stepped inside, clutching her coat tightly around her, as if it were the only thing that was keeping her grounded, keeping her sane.

"Emma, love, what's on your mind?" his soothing voice asked as he slowly clicked the door closed.

He moved to stand behind her, fingers and hook tugging at the collar of her coat as he eased it off her shoulders. Unable to speak, Emma simply shrugged out of her jacket, letting it fall to the floor, too tired to kick it to the side. She felt his warm fingers tickling the back of her neck, thumb rubbing in calming circles, gently massaging out the tension that addled her body. He ran his hooked arm to the front of her body and pulled her back lightly against his chest, hugging her close. The warmth radiating from his body did little to appease the chill that froze her bones and she shivered against him.

"Emma," he breathed her name as he nuzzled his face in the crook of her neck, pressing soft and comforting kisses behind her ear. "You're freezing, darling. Tell me, what's wrong?"

Unbidden tears prickled behind her eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment.

_It was just sex. _

When did it quit being that? When did it turn from fucking into something far more intimate? He shouldn't be this caring, this gentle, this understanding. He shouldn't be this _nice _to her, because he was a fucking _pirate_ and he was supposed to be greedy and selfish and despicable.

But he wasn't.

He was kind and selfless and sweet and adorable and smart. But only for her, only for his Emma. He was a different man when he was around Emma, a man that no one else knew, a man so enamored he nearly tripped over himself as he tried to please her, make her happy, see her smile. He would do absolutely _anything _to ensure her wellbeing and happiness, and she knew he would die for her if he had to.

He wasn't Captain Hook when he was with her – he was Killian Jones.

And that terrified her.

Killian ran his warm hand up and down her arm, trying to add heat to her freezing appendage. He curled himself against her back as he kissed her hair, silently pleading with her to talk to him, to open up to him, to trust him. Trust _him, _as if _he _were the devious one, the duplicitous one. He was a fucking _pirate_ – he had no right to be this caring, this gentle, this concerned.

"Talk to me, let me carry some of your burden," he coaxed, pleading with her as he slowly turned her around to face him, searching for her eyes, knowing that he would learn all of her secrets and fears and desires if he could only look into her eyes.

"_You're something of an open book,"_ he had told her once.

He knew her fall too well for her liking. He was supposed to be her one-time thing, a physical outlet that she had needed on Neverland. It was just sex. That's all it would _ever_ be, all it ever could be.

And now here he stood, holding her in his arms like a delicate flower, a porcelain doll so fragile he was scared it would smash into a million tiny pieces if he hugged her too tightly. It infuriated her, horrified her.

Killian could feel it, the moment when she began building her walls, shielding herself off from him, barring her heart from feeling any further emotion. He panicked, sweeping his thumb across her cheek, cradling her jaw in his hand as he stared at her with turbulent eyes. "Don't shut me out, love, let me _in. _Let me help. Tell me what's bothering you."

She silenced his words with a bruising kiss, twining her fingers into his raven hair as she pulled him down to her. Emma poured her angst into the kiss, pulling at his nether lip, biting into it until she tasted the metallic tang of iron. Killian groaned with mingling pleasure and surprise.

She really shouldn't be here.

He put his hand on her chest, slightly pushing her away from him, interrupting the kiss to force her to slow down and _talk_ to him. But Emma didn't feel like talking, didn't want to dwell on what she was doing, what was happening. Tonight, she wanted to forget. Tonight, she wanted to pretend that there was no tomorrow, no consequence. Tonight, she wanted to live in the illusion that Killian was hers and she was his. Tonight, she wanted to be with him, just one last time, before tomorrow came and everything changed.

"Not that I don't appreciate your enthusiasm, love," he began, but Emma was quick to distract him, determined not to let him penetrate her walls, to get her to open up before she'd had her one last time with him. Because tomorrow, he would hate her. Tomorrow, he'd never want to see her again. Her heart ached.

"I just really need you to fuck me. Make me forget, Hook," she breathed against his mouth, her hands working on the fastenings on his trousers. "I need you. _Now._"

He made a sound low in his throat at her words, his previous concerns forgotten as her palm slid down the front of his pants, fingers brushing the downy hair above his sex.

"Neal's out of town. Went back to Manhattan to get the last of his things to move here," she muttered between biting kisses. "Henry is staying at Regina's. We have all night. Think you're up for it?"

He smiled against her lips, slightly pulling his mouth back as he looked her in the eyes, the twinkling mischief once again lighting up his blue irises. "Do you mean to tell me I'm stuck with you until morning?"

"I'll try not to bore you," she bit out sarcastically as she squinted at him, moving to pull his trousers down. She needed him, needed _this_. Fast and rough and dirty and violent. Like it always was, every Monday in the hour she had to spare. Like it was _supposed_ to be – filthy, emotionless, quick, satisfying.

"I can think of one or two ways to pass the time," he leered, grabbing her wrists with one hand, preventing her from divesting him of his clothing. Leaning forward, he gently nipped at her lower lip as he ran his nose alongside hers. He dragged his mouth across her cheek, his lips leaving a searing trail of burning sensation that caused her to shiver. His breath tickled her as his lips grazed the shell of her ear. "But I'm going to take my time with you, Swan. I'm going to explore every inch of your body and commit it to memory."

Emma growled with frustration. She didn't want to take it slow, didn't want it to mean more than it did. _It was just sex. _A means to an end, a quick release, instant gratification.

"Does that displease you? Taking it slow and sensual as I trace your every curve with my hand and tongue, and find all those delicious, sweet spots on you that make you squirm as you ache and beg for more? Would it truly be so terrible if I make you come undone again and again, screaming my name until your throat goes raw?"

Killian smirked at her, pushing her backwards until her back hit the wall with a soft _thud. _He carefully looped his hook around both of her wrists and used it to pin her arms above her head. He traced down the underside of her arm with his good hand, fingers dancing and playing over her skin in a torturous tempo. Leaning his body against her, Emma felt his chest crush against hers, and she loved the burn of her lungs as she struggled to breathe against his weight.

"I've never liked taking it slow," she finally managed, a lie if she'd ever heard one.

"Oh, but you will, darling. Once I'm done with you, you will," he spoke his words directly in her mouth as his lips hovered over hers, pressing soft, barely-there kisses.

Killian's hand explored her body, smoothing over her shoulder, caressing down her side, sliding over her hip, cupping her ass. His touch was electric, his fingers drumming a tantalizing tune as they skimmed over her body, tickling and burning her skin wherever he touched.

It was driving her mad with desire, with frustration. She didn't want to go slow. She needed release and she needed it _now. _Emma wiggled her wrists, struggling against his hook as she tried to break free, wanting and needing to put her hands on his body, to touch and feel him.

"Slow down, Emma," his chest rumbled against her as he chuckled, his tone suddenly serious, "I'm no fool – I know there's something you're not telling me. You don't want to talk about it, and that's fine, I respect your wish. But I do ask that you offer me the same courtesy. You're hurting right now, and the only way you allow me to comfort you is through touch and sex. Be that as it may, I want to do it right and I want to do it properly."

He slowly removed his hook, freeing her hands as he took a small step away from her. Emma dropped her hands, rubbing her wrists as her fingers and palms tingled with the sudden return of blood flow. Her jaw was set tight, teeth clenched to the point of pain as she considered his words.

"You don't need to be scared of me, love." One corner of his mouth tugged into a lop-sided smile, feigning confidence.

He was nervous, Emma knew, nervous that she was two seconds away from leaving him and running out the door. Killian reached out to her, offering his hand with a yearning look in his eye. Emma wordlessly nodded as she accepted, letting herself be guided to the bed.

He gently laid her down before he removed his hooked attachment and set it on the bedside table. Softly nudging her knees apart, he planted himself between her legs and bent over her, resting his left forearm to the side of her head. His good hand roamed over her body, slowly lifting her shirt, ghosting his fingertips across her breast, brushing over her peak. His mouth pressed searing kisses into her skin, biting and licking at her neck, her shoulder, her collar.

There was a stirring in her chest when she saw the adulation plainly etched on his features as he removed her clothing, unwrapping her like a precious gift. His mouth and fingers explored the newly exposed skin, tongue flicking over her nipple, finger dipping into her wet folds.

And then he was kneeling between her thighs, resting them on his shoulders as he gave a long, languid, delicious swipe of his tongue from her core to her bud. Her hands fisted in the sheets, head thrown back with silent cries of pleasure as his mouth worked at her, slow and sensuous and perfect, circling her center with his tongue, flicking lightly, licking long, slow lines. He planted a delicate kiss to her bud, wrapping his mouth around it, giving a heady press of his tongue, barely grazing it with his teeth.

Emma was dying in exquisite agony as he spent what felt like hours exploring every inch of her skin, kissing and licking his way from one end to the other. But he never entered her, not with his tongue, his fingers, his sex. It was driving her mad, the warmth pooling low in her belly, the hollow feeling inside as she craved and begged for him to finally take her, to finally give her that feeling of fullness.

She nearly wept with pleasure as his fingers worked at her opening, pumping into her, crooking at just the right angle to brush against that sweet, delicious spot in her core. His husky voice whispered words in her ear, words that she refused to listen to or acknowledge, words that conveyed sentiments and feelings she didn't want to hear.

Emma lost count of the number of times she came, his hand and mouth relentless in their assault.

When he finally did take her – pumping into her at a leisurely pace, thrusting deeper into her than she ever thought possible, mouthing at her collarbone, hot breath washing over her, hand pressed tight against her lower back, angling her up towards him – her heart broke, shattering as she felt something in her stir that she'd been trying so hard to ignore, to swallow down, to snuff out. They'd never been connected like this, never had something so _intimate. _It was always clawing hands, frenzied thrusts, panting breaths – fast, meaningless, dirty.

She carded her fingers in his hair, bringing his face up to hers, and kissed him with the passion she couldn't allow herself to feel. He parted her lips, dipping his tongue into her mouth to taste her. Emma wrapped her arms around his head, holding him securely against her as she poured everything she had into that kiss, clinging onto it, clinging onto this moment, this perfect moment where there was only her and only him as he snapped his hips into hers, brushing his tip across her most intimate of places. His arm wrapped around her, cradling her like she was something irreplaceable that he never wanted to lose. His lips kissed her like he needed her breath for sustenance, for survival. His fingers worked at her bundle of nerves, coaxing her to her release, begging her to come undone.

Her heart was pounding, her pulse rapid and racing, and she broke from the kiss as her breath faltered, becoming shaky and uneven. Killian raised his head and looked at her, the flush of her cheeks, the bruised redness of her lips, the wild, untamed look in hers eyes. She was close, so very close, and she shivered at his lingering gaze. He looked so utterly _wrecked _that it was nearly her undoing. She'd barely touched him, greedily taking anything he offered her, devouring his touch, his kisses, his words, but it didn't matter because his pleasure came from her pleasure. She wanted him, all of him, and he gladly gave her everything he could, expecting nothing in return.

Killian sighed against her forehead. "Come with me, Emma."

And just like that, she toppled over the ledge, falling head over feet into white-hot pleasure, his name falling from her lips – always _Hook _and never _Killian. _Her heart quit beating for a moment, her lungs squeezed of all her air, her chest heaving with pain as tears stung at the corners of her eyes.

He followed her in close pursuit, his body going still and rigid with a shout of her name. And then he collapsed on top of her, resting his forehead against hers, a dazed smile gracing his lips, a delighted sparkle in his eye. He sluggishly rolled over on his back, resting his head on his left forearm, his right hand drawing lazy circles on his stomach.

"Now that wasn't so horrible, was it?"

She shielded her face from him, refusing to let him see her glassy eyes, filled with unshed tears. Saying nothing, she turned her back to him and tucked her knees closer to her body, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Ah, your silence is very reassuring," he teased, unaware of her inner turmoil, her conflicting emotions.

Emma didn't know where this random influx of emotion came from, why it was enveloping her now, what it _meant. _But she did know what it meant, somewhere in the crevasse of her mind. But she wouldn't allow herself to think it, wouldn't let herself feel it, wouldn't admit that what had just happened was more than _fucking, _and that for the first time in over a decade, she was reminded of what it meant to make _love._

Because tomorrow it would be different, tomorrow it would all be over, tomorrow he would hate her. That's simply how it had to be, how it was always _meant_ to be.

"Emma?" he questioned, leaning over to grab her shoulder.

"I'm just really sleepy," she lied, her voice a bare murmur as she shrugged herself out of his grasp.

Killian hummed in response, and she knew he didn't believe her, knew that he was far more perceptive than he had any right to be. She didn't know why he kept trying, why he hadn't given up on her yet, why he always tolerated her mood swings and lies, why he seemed _content _with being second place to Neal.

"Looks like you were the one who wasn't up for it," he groused to himself, retreating back to his spot, putting a large, empty, and cold distance between them. If she wanted her space, he'd give it to her, but it didn't mean he'd have to like it, always the toddler having a tantrum.

And she tried not to be lured in by the pout she knew marred his features, the flicker of hurt and disappointment that flashed in his eyes. She hated that she wanted to make him feel better, to cuddle next to him, to sidle up to his side and tuck herself under his arm, to feel what it was like to sleep with him through the night.

Because tomorrow it would be over and this all would be some vague memory, a distant dream falling through her fingers, like sand through a sieve.

But tonight was hers, tonight was theirs. Tonight, just for tonight, and then never again.

Emma turned around and Killian shot her a startled expression, his eyebrow rising high on his forehead as she moved to him, snaking her arm around his midsection, squeezing him close to her. She draped her leg over his as she nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck and breathed deeply, inhaling his aroma, committing the smell to memory – the smell of the sea, leather, sex, and something spicy, something that was uniquely Killian. It was intoxicating and delicious and she wanted to shout and cry and sob because after tonight, she'd never be able to get drunk off his essence again.

"I'm cold," she muttered into his skin as she laid her head on his chest, the soft drum of his heartbeat resonating in her ears, a lovely, sweet lullaby that slowed the frenetic pounding of her own heart, finally calm and at peace.

Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close, tracing random shapes into her hip with the blunt end of his fingernails. "If you're nice to me, I might share my blanket with you."

"I'm never nice to you," she half-joked as she splayed her hand on his chest, running her fingers through the dusting of hair.

"True," Killian teased as he moved his hand to grab the blanket and pulled it tightly around them like a cocoon. "However, this pirate is freezing and I'm feeling rather charitable at the moment, so I guess it's your lucky day."

She smiled against him, snuggling close, enjoying the feel of the soft blanket against her back. Killian shifted underneath her, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head as he threaded his fingers through her hair.

Emma felt the first waves of sleepiness wash over her, and she tried to fight it off, tried to stay in the moment, the last one they would have. She could feel his breathing even out as he drifted in and out of consciousness, falling deeper into sleep. She traced her fingers along his jawline, completely enraptured with his face, the way he looked so much younger, so calm and serene, while he slept. She outlined the perfect angle of his nose, the ridge of his brow, the little scar on his right cheek, marveling at him, memorizing each and every contour of his face.

"Why are you so nice to me?" Emma mused aloud as she burrowed closer, holding on to him like he was about to slip through her fingers. He was kind to her, understanding, and she didn't deserve it, didn't deserve any of it, because tomorrow, it would be different… tomorrow-

"Because I'm completely besotted with you, Emma Swan," he startled her when he responded in a grumbling voice, thick with sleep. "Now go to sleep."

She shouldn't be here, she shouldn't be doing this.

But in that moment, Emma couldn't find it in herself to care. She would deal with it tomorrow, because tonight was for her, tonight was for Killian, tonight was theirs.

Just this one last time, Emma told herself, and then never again.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:** Well this didn't feel good to write at all. I imagined it going one way, but my muse argued with me, and this was the result._

_Things have to get worse before they get better, right? ...right? Right. That's my philosophy and I'm stickin' to it. "It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything." Thank you, Fight Club, for that little gem. _

_Anyway, thank you guys so much for the overwhelming support! It really blew me away. I didn't expect this to go over as well as it did, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that I'm not the only person who enjoys a good angsty story from time to time. I appreciate your support more than you know and it really makes my day when I get a little notification with the feedback :)_

_I love you all, you wonderful readers, you. Just bear with me, suffer through the misery, and maybe our beloved Captain Swan will get their happy ending (innuendo 100% intended)_

* * *

When Emma roused from her sleep, she felt the misplaced comfort of a warm body behind hers, fitting snugly against her like a glove. A hint of a smile played her lips as a pleasant, happy buzz spread through her chest, filling her with a sense of calm, ease, and harmony. There was an arm draped across her waist, a leg strewn between her knees, the scratch of facial hair tickling the back of her neck, and it was warm and wonderful and safe and perfect – her own little oasis of happiness. She curled into the solid, soothing presence behind her, twining her fingers with the hand on her midsection, heart stuttering when the other's fingers responded, intuitively squeezing and interlocking with her own.

Emma opened her eyes with a sleep-drunk grin and was greeted by sunshine streaming in through the window, peeking out through haphazardly drawn shades, highlighting little specks of dust floating in the air, twinkling as they reflected the light. She almost marveled at the simplistic beauty of it – the golden haze that settled in the room, the calming sound of small waves kissing the side of the ship. It was hypnotic, serene, tranquil.

And then it hit her.

Her stomach dropped, her lungs forgot how to breathe, her heart seized with panic. Realization settled uneasily within her when she abruptly remembered _who_ it was that was sleeping behind her, holding her, and who it _should _be.

The sunlight, which had seconds ago filled her with the comfort of complacency, suddenly held a new daunting meaning, a devastating reminder of what that sunlight _meant. _

It was officially tomorrow. The tomorrow she had so been dreading, the tomorrow that she never wanted to come, the tomorrow she wasn't ready to contend with.

It wasn't fair; she didn't even remember falling asleep. And now their moment was gone, the illusion melting away in the heat of the sun's rays, baring the cold teeth of reality as it bit into her with a vicious sting.

Flashes of the previous night played like a slideshow in her mind, taunting her with the fluttering echo of butterflies that had stirred in her belly during their intimacy, when she'd lowered her walls and let him in. Stupid, stupid thing to do.

She shouldn't be here. Why had she done this?

His breath tickled her neck as he snored softly, nuzzling his nose into her hair, pulling her closer in his sleep. It would be endearing if it wasn't so heartbreaking – who knew the pirate was a cuddler?

She rolled over in his arms, moving to press their chests together so she could see his face, smell his musk, touch his cheek, just one last time. Just this one last time before everything changed and they'd never again have a moment like this.

He looked so beautiful while he slept, face unburdened with disguised emotion, his features relaxed. She leaned into him, burying her face in the crook of his neck as her arm wrapped around his body, hand clutching his back, and she squeezed gently, hugging him close, savoring the feel of him solidly pressed against her, so close she could feel his heart beating against her. She inhaled deeply, his scent making her dizzy, making her ache in a way she hadn't thought possible. Emma wanted to bottle his essence, capture that delicious, spicy smell of him and keep it forever, hoarding it for herself and not wanting to share, because she so badly wanted it – wanted _him –_ to be hers and no one else's.

_It wasn't fucking fair._

Her face became overheated, her jaw clenched, her nose tingled and burned as the threat of tears brimmed in her eyes, obscuring her vision, blurring his silhouette. Emma brought her hand to his face, finger tracing his slightly chapped lips, his nose, his scar – his perfect little scar that carried a story of its own, one that she didn't know and one that she desperately wished she did, and Emma wanted to kick and scream and cry because she _never asked _and she _should _have, for that scar was a part of Killian and it was beautiful and broken and tragic, just like she was.

She could feel her resolve dissipating and she wanted to wrap herself in him and forget the world, because the world could wait and the world would keep on spinning, keep on existing, unlike this moment, this thing she had with Killian that she didn't completely understand.

But she couldn't stay, couldn't keep up this charade, this carefully construed façade that it was _just sex_ and nothing more, never anything more than a quick release, a means to an end. It was _wrong _and _deceitful _and _immoral. _It wasn't her; she'd made a promise to Neal and she needed to keep it, needed to respect it – respect _him – _and stop this foolishness with Killian, this nameless thing that she wouldn't let herself dwell on, because then it would become real and she couldn't ignore it any longer.

It had to stop. She shouldn't have let it gone this far, never should have stepped foot in his cabin on that first Monday night. She shouldn't be here, she didn't belong here, but oh, how she _wished _she did, and it filled her with a devastating sadness that she just _didn't belong here_. Because Killian was a pirate and she was a mother and she couldn't ever give him what he wanted – she was too damaged, too broken, too guarded. A beautiful disaster.

She had to leave, had to get out of here, had to walk away and leave him behind and _never come back_. Just rip off the fucking band aid and yes, it'll hurt like _hell_, but it's better to feel one sharp sting of agonizing pain than it is to draw out the hurt by peeling back slowly, bit by bit, tearing yourself apart in a tortuously slow, excruciating burn.

She was dawdling, wanting to stretch out this last instant with him and savor everything he had to offer: his comforting warmth, his strong and steady heartbeat, the achingly familiar ebb and flow of him_ –_ his essence, his aura, his presence.

_Rip off the band aid, Emma. _

With a final brush of her thumb across his nether lip, Emma delicately slipped out of his embrace, moving carefully to avoid waking him. Gently unwrapping herself from the nest of sheets, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, casting a quick glance over her shoulder to ensure he still slept, feeling a mix of relief and disappointment that he was.

She rose from the bed and found her undergarments, sliding into them as silently as possible, hoping to make a quick departure and circumvent the conversation they had every time: "one time thing", "it won't happen again", "this _has _to stop_"_. Because this time was different – this time she _meant _it. She couldn't keep doing this, couldn't keep living a double life, giving false hope to the only two men that had ever truly cared for her.

Today was now tomorrow, and that meant Killian was going to hate her, for it was the only way she knew how to make him stay away, the only way _she _could stay away. He wouldn't stop fighting for her, this Emma knew, even if it meant he only had her for that short time every Monday night. And, if Emma was being honest with herself, she didn't _want _him to stop fighting, didn't want him to so easily dispose of her and cast her off to Neal, just another notch on his belt, another nameless woman in a sea of faceless conquests.

"Cruel woman, you took the warmth away," Killian's muffled voice grumbled from the bed, tone thick with sleep.

Emma turned to look at him. Half his face was buried in a plush pillow, eyes heavily lidded as he winced at the sun's glare, hair disheveled and messy, and he looked so adorable and content and _happy_ that it made her heart smile, just a little, temporarily forgetting that she had to leave – leave him, leave this… this _whatever _it was between them_. _But then it was gone, the moment slipping away, just another memory to be placed under lock and key, filed away for the rare rainy day when Emma would allow herself to reminisce.

"There's some stuff I have to take care of at the sheriff's office…" she offered lamely, tugging her shirt over her head, feeling suddenly exposed under his always intense gaze.

"And you were going to leave without saying goodbye? Bad form, darling."

She wiggled her hips as she pulled up her jeans, refusing to look at him, terrified that he'd catch her eye and learn all of her secrets, all of her untold truths that she wouldn't even allow herself to admit. "You were sleeping; I didn't want to wake you."

"Well, I'm awake now, so your point is moot. Come back to bed." He patted the pillow beside his head as he smiled at her, eyebrow raising, like it always raised, a lazy action that she was dearly going to miss.

"I already told you I have to go to the office," she said with exasperation, desperate to leave his room, terrified of what would happen if she stayed, hating that she _wanted _to stay.

"No, you don't," Killian droned as he sat up and propped himself against the wooden headboard, shooting her a look of mild irritation. "There are only two real threats to your Storybrooke, and one is currently with your son, so I don't imagine she'll be getting into any trouble today."

"And the other?"

Emma knew better than to ask – he was goading her, baiting her, charming and weaseling his way back into her heart, and okay, _maybe_ a tiny, devious part of her wanted him to.

"Waiting for you in bed and dreadfully cold," he pouted, lips turning down in a playful frown.

She should've seen that retort coming a mile away.

"Cute," Emma sneered at him as she bent over to slip on her boots, one step closer to being dressed, one step closer to running out of the goddamned door.

"You're just avoiding whatever it is you weren't telling me last night."

"I'm not avoiding anything," she replied a little too quickly, too defensively.

His eyebrow shot up in skepticism and he narrowed his eyes at her as he pushed himself off of the bed, slowly approaching her. "For someone who claims to be an excellent lie detector, you're horrid at telling them."

"I'm not lying!" her voice was shrill, an octave too high, her nerves buzzing with dread and anticipation as he neared her, and _heaven help her_, he was still naked.

"Don't insult my intelligence, love."

And she tried not to look down, really, she did, but it was _impossible_ when he was sauntering towards her like that – the dangerous glint in his eye as his agitation grew, the swagger to his step, the casual swing of his half-hard member, stiff from the morning. It was obscene and crude and so very Killian that it would've pissed her off if it wasn't for the heat of desire that pooled in her core.

_No person should be allowed to look that amazing right after waking up_.

"Would you _please _put on some clothes?" Emma said with flustered frustration, dragging her hand down her face to rid herself of the inexplicable flush that heated her skin, painting her cheeks red and evidencing her desire, because _god _did he look good naked, and it wasn't fair, it really wasn't, that someone could look so perfect and flawless. It was almost enough to make her come _thisclose _to staying.

Killian gave her an appraising look, smirking with self-satisfaction at her sudden discomfort. He bent over with a flourished bow. "As you wish."

He ambled to his armoire, thumbing through his new wardrobe of 'normal', more practical attire. He dressed up well, still looking unholy in jeans and a button down, and Emma tried not to gawk at him, but _shit, _he was making it difficult with his shirt only fastened half-way, chest hair peeking out between the material, jeans hanging loosely from his hips.

His voice broke her free of her trance, "What's going on in that head of yours, love?"

"Nothing," Emma shook her head and tore her eyes away from him and his captivating allure.

"Why did you tried to sneak out of my room before I awoke?" His tone was softer than she was expecting, the undercurrents of hurt playing at the edges, nipping at the heels of his words. The sound of it tore through her, and she loathed hearing the way he tried to remain impassive, tried to hide the hurt. But he _needed_ to hurt, needed to realize that being with her was _wrong_, that it wasn't meant to _be. _

"I wasn't sneaking! We had sex, we fell asleep, and now I'm going to work. You know – a _job. _It's what adults in this realm do to make a living. Not all of us can be pirates and just take what we want," she knew she was being snarky, her anger and agitation towards him unwarranted.

"Touchy this morning, are we?" And damn him, he seemed _amused _by her words, leering at her as he approached, tucking his finger under her chin to force her to look at him, thumb lightly brushing under her lip. "Talk to me. If you won't let me help, then at least allow me to listen. It could be cathartic for you."

Oh, how badly she wanted to believe him, to believe that talking about it would be cathartic and therapeutic, that it would make everything better and everything right, and then none of this would have to happen. Her heart beat painfully in her chest and for a moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't move, and all she wanted to do was lean forward and capture his sinful lips in a kiss, hold him close to her, envelope herself in his arms where it was warm and safe and comfortable and perfect.

And she almost did, she almost caved, almost leaned in to his touch, but hateful words came out instead, feigning a heartlessness she didn't feel, a callousness that wasn't true. "What we have is just about sex; I don't need to talk to you about anything."

Killian visibly flinched at her words, recoiling as if she'd struck him, quickly snatching his hand from her face as though he'd been scalded. His brow furrowed, eyes beseeching as they frantically scanned her face, wondering if he'd heard her correctly and praying he hadn't. A familiar darkness settled in his features as he breathed a humorless chuckle, disbelief and bitterness tainting the sound, and he shook his head at her, backing away a few paces.

"Ah, yes, we're back to pretending it's all just a jolly good romp and nothing more, is that it?" Killian drawled sardonically with a bitter grin, his biting words lacking his earlier gentleness.

_Good. _

Sometime stirred in Emma then, exciting her and filling her with a rush of emotion other than guilt, shame, misery, regret.

It was exhilarating.

She wanted to incite his wrath, piss him off, make him lose control, make him understand that he was wasting his time with her because she didn't love him – _couldn't _love him – because Emma didn't know_ how _to love_. _ If she could make him angry, she could make him _leave_ and then maybe, finally, she would be at peace and let herself be happy with Neal.

"It's not pretending if it's the truth, Hook."

He groaned as she used his impersonal moniker, his infamous persona. "Why must you use that name? Why can't you call me Killian?"

"Because you're a pirate, _Hook, _and that's all you'll ever be to me," the words came unbidden from her mouth, all vitriol and contempt denial. She pointed an accusing finger at his face, cutting him off before he could protest. His eyes glinted dangerously as she yelled over him, her voice rising with her agitation. "You knew going into this that it was just about the sex – that it's _always_ just been about the sex. It won't _ever_ be anything more than that."

Killian's mouth snapped shut, jaw clenching and shifting slightly as he ground his teeth, Adam's apple bopping as he forcibly swallowed. He ran a hand over his mouth, contemplating her words, eyes staring listlessly at the floor by her feet before he trained his devastating gaze on her. His blue irises glistened with an emotion she wasn't used to seeing on his face and it sent pangs of repressed emotion tearing through her chest.

"Do you truly believe that, Emma?" Killian asked in a tempered tone, and Emma could see the war waging behind his eyes as he fought with himself to maintain control, to keep his composure and use rationale and reason to argue with her. "You're deluding yourself if you think that's all this is, darling."

It wasn't fair, wasn't fair that he could stay calm and collected while she was a mess of tempestuous, unpredictable emotion. She wanted him to hurt, wanted him to suffer, wanted him to _bleed – _make him bleed, make him hate her, make him sail off into the sunset and forget about her and care for someone else.

_It was better this way,_ Emma lied to herself.

"You're the one deluding yourself, Hook. If I wanted to be with you, I'd be with you – not Neal."

"And yet, you find yourself in my bed every Monday night. I wonder why that is," he smirked at her, a nasty expression that marred his handsome features.

She glowered at him, hating him for so easily calling her bluff, because Emma _was _here every Monday night, just like she'd be there every Monday night. There was something lacking in her life, something that Neal wanted to give to her but simply _couldn't_, something that she'd only been able to find here, find with the tortured pirate that stood before her.

"I'm not having this conversation with you," her voice lacked the conviction she wanted to feel as she gathered her coat and wrapped it around her, fingers cutting into the fabric as she fastened the buttons, busying her hands with the tedium of the task. She suddenly felt cold, so very cold, a chill that settled deep in her bones. Her blood turned to ice and her heart labored to pump the crystalline substance through her veins. And it hurt, _god, _did it _hurt. _

"What is it that you want from me, Emma?" Killian asked in a defeated whisper, all traces of his anger gone, his arms hanging limply by his sides, eyes downcast, unable to look at her – for once, unable to level her with his always intense, storming, beautiful eyes.

"I don't want anything from you, not anymore." It was a lie, a pathetic one, because Emma wanted _everything _from him, from her pirate, from the man desperate to show her what she meant to him, to show her what _he _meant to _her. _But she couldn't take that chance, couldn't take the risk that he'd break her heart and leave her, just like everyone always had.

"So that's it, then? You're just going to go bugger off only to fall at my doorstep again next week, looking for someone to warm your bed?"

He was turning spiteful, and she could see the darkness brewing in his eyes, taking control of his personality, warping him from her beloved Killian into the notorious Captain Hook. She wanted to scream and cry and weep and shout because she _hated _doing this to him, but she _had to –_ it was the only way to make him _leave_, to move on and be happy, to find someone he could love and who could love him in the way he deserved. But that wasn't Emma, couldn't be Emma, because she was broken, she was flawed – _she didn't know how to love. _Not romantically.

"No. This was the last time. It stops now."

"Right, I'd forgotten we almost missed that part: 'a one-time thing'. Like I haven't heard that one before," all biting sarcasm and dark humor, a new set to his jaw, a bristled edge to his body.

"That's all it was supposed to be!" Emma nearly shouted, her arms flying down to her sides in exasperation. "It was a mistake to let it get this far, and for that, I'm sorry, I really am. But I love Neal and I want to be with him. I want me and Neal and Henry to be family together, and that means stopping this…" she motioned vaguely between them, "_whatever_ we have going on."

Killian stuttered at that, head snapping up to look at her, and for a moment, for the barest of moments, he was stripped of all of his defenses, the anger and derision faltering as utter agony broke through, and Emma could swear in that instant she could _hear _his heart break. And then, just like that, the moment was gone and Killian's walls were firmly back in place, darkness eclipsing his face, corrupting his countenance.

"You love him?"

"Yes." It was harder to say than it should have been – a paradoxical truth.

"And what of me, hmm?" he asked quietly, too quietly, a veiled threat hidden in the spaces between his words.

"What're you talking about?"

Killian scoffed at her with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

"You know damn bloody well what I mean." His demeanor changed, his face softening as he looked at her imploringly. "You say you love Neal, but what of me? Do you mean to convince me that you feel _nothing_ for me? That after all this time, after all we've shared and been through together, it's still just _fucking _to you? Because last night was anything but fucking, Emma."

And there it was – that little tremble to his tone as he tripped over his words, his inflection wavering just the slightest bit, the same way his voice broke when she'd left him on top of the beanstalk. It was a sound that ruined her, devastated her, causing her chest to burn and ache and _hurt_.

"I can't give you what you want, Hook," her voice was exhausted, heavy with the admission of defeat, a truth she didn't want to acknowledge.

Killian gave her a curious stare with his ever-arching brow. "And what is it you think I want?"

"I don't love you. I won't _ever _love you."

_Because I don't know how_, she wanted to scream at him, but she wouldn't say that, couldn't say that, because then he'd fight to prove her wrong, to show her she could _learn. _And she was scared, absolutely _terrified _that he would succeed in opening her heart to him, granting him access to the most heavily guarded part of her.

To love someone was to become vulnerable, giving them the ability to utterly destroy you, to smash your heart into a thousand microscopic pieces, and trusting them _not _to. But how could she trust anyone, let alone a _pirate, _to wield that kind of power over her? At least with Neal, she knew what to expect – he'd left her once and she had survived, she knew how to cope. But Killian was different, had always been different. He'd never let her down, he'd never left her side, he'd come through for her when so many other people failed. He always showed up for her, offering her help, guidance, reassurance, encouragement. It was more than anyone had ever done for her, and it was overwhelming and wonderful and petrifying all at once. She was terrified that he _would _leave her behind, forget about her, let her down, because people _always did_. Emma couldn't handle that kind of heartache, not again, not from Killian.

And so she was going to leave before she could be left, a preemptive strike against the inevitable disappointment and pain that the future promised.

"I find that rather hard to believe," he challenged her, stepping closer as he reached for her.

She pushed his arm out of the way, sidestepping his advance. "You're a pirate, Hook. Really, what'd you think was gonna happen? That after months of sex, I'd suddenly realize that you're my 'One True Love' and sail away with you on your stupid fucking ship? _Everyone_ that Neal's ever cared about has left him – including you. I'm not about to add my name to that list."

Killian caught her eye then, staring at her with his always intense gaze, anxious and imploring. "Being the mother of his child doesn't obligate you to him, Emma."

Emma's eyes grew wide and she gaped at him, momentarily stumped by his assertion. "Excuse me?"

"You two share a son, and that is a bond I wouldn't ever dream of coming between, but that does not _obligate _you to him. You're going to Neal because you think that you owe it to him, or to Henry, or maybe even to yourself. You do not have to be with him simply because he's the father of your son."

She scoffed, heedlessly ignoring his words, feeling a deep sense of irritation that he had the _audacity _to even say such a thing. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"No? Tell me, then, tell me that you want to be with Neal because you truly love him and it has _nothing _to do with a sense of obligation."

"I don't have to justify myself to you," Emma brushed him off as she ran a worried hand through her hair, agitation festering in her as he furthered delved into the subject, exposing feelings that she hadn't even considered, sentiments that struck just a little too close to home.

"Ah, but you haven't disagreed with me. I think someone's in denial here, love, and it certainly isn't me." The smile he gave her was bittersweet, both condescending and empathetic, and it pissed her off; her body tingled with rage at his sudden change of demeanor, his increasingly impudent accusations.

"Oh, fuck you," she snapped, flicking her hand in his direction as if to physically brush him away from her. She headed for the door, angrily clutching the handle as she yanked it open a little too abruptly.

"Go right ahead, since apparently that's all I'm worth to you," Killian sneered, always ready with a quip perched at the tip of his tongue, always knowing _exactly _what buttons to press, how to crawl under her skin.

Emma stalled at the door, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing on end at the heat she felt from the scrutiny of his gaze. She turned to look at him over her shoulder. "You know what? You're right – that's all you're worth to me. But now I'm ending it and it's _done._"

"Until your next 'therapy' appointment, you mean," he leered at her with a vicious grin.

"Goodbye, Hook."

"Same time next Monday?" It was so infuriatingly typical of Killian – his sick need to have the last say, to give the last word, to punctuate his argument with an acerbic statement – that it nauseated her, a coalescence of fury, resentment, and guilt. He was so maddening, so galling in his presumption, and in that moment, she hated him.

Emma tossed him a resentful look and without saying another word, she walked out of his room for the last time, slamming the door shut as she finally found the strength to leave him behind and go home.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N:** I'm a slave to a slow build... especially when it comes to romance._

_Please don't hate me. I never meant for this fic to be this painful._

* * *

"_Being the mother of his child doesn't obligate you to him, Emma."_

When next Monday rolled around, Emma sat at the kitchen bar, staring listlessly at nothing in particular. She fiddled with the empty bottle in her hand, rolling it in small circles on the counter, contemplating the words she'd heard spoken to her a week ago.

They'd been haunting her ever since.

Killian's voice echoed the statement over and over, playing in her head like a broken record, and his words struck a disconcerting chord within her, one she hadn't realized even _existed. _ She refused to believe the truth in those words, that radically presumptuous sentence, but the seed of doubt had been planted, its roots sowing into her mind, growing wild and rampant and dangerous.

"_You're going to Neal because you think that you owe it to him, or to Henry, or maybe even to yourself. You do not have to be with him simply because he's the father of your son."_

Who the fuck did Killian think he was, anyhow? He had _no right _to say that to her.

"_Tell me, then, tell me that you want to be with Neal because you truly love him and it has _nothing _to do with a sense of obligation."_

Of course she loved Neal – he was the first person she loved, the first person to love her, and she would always be grateful to him for that, for opening her eyes to the wonders of love, for giving her a sense of belonging, a sense of home. It had _nothing_ to do with obligation.

Emma warred against Killian's assumption, turning his words over in her mind as she dissected them into tiny pieces, finding every possible way she could disprove his wild allegations. He was _wrong _because he couldn't be right, couldn't have so easily uncovered a truth that even _she_ hadn't considered. The possibility that maybe, just maybe, Killian _did_ know her that well settled uneasily with her.

"_You and I, we understand each other."_

When Emma had said it, she'd meant for it to manipulate him, to goad him into helping her save her town, save her son. She hadn't known how painfully accurate that sentiment was – not when they sought solace with each other on Neverland, nor when she found herself sneaking away to the _Jolly Roger _every Monday night.

And now, she was quickly coming to realize that Killian knew her better than she even knew _herself, _that he understood her on a deeper psychological and emotional level in a way that no one ever had before. Not Neal, not Mary Margaret... _nobody._

It was unnerving and terrifying. He was a _pirate_ and pirates weren't supposed to be empathetic or understanding or caring or intuitive. But he _wasn't_ a pirate when he was with her, wasn't Captain Hook – he was simply Killian Jones.

It was enough to make her almost miss him. Miss his smug, playful smile and soft touches. Miss his turbulent eyes, dancing with mischief and twinkling with amusement at some humorous secret that he wasn't going to share. Miss his hushed tone whispering into her ear, promising her everything and _meaning _it.

"Aren't you going to be late for your appointment?" Neal's voice sounded from the couch, breaking her free of her painful reverie.

Her eyes moved to the clock. It was almost 6.

Her heart skipped a beat, her gut twisting into painful knots.

Killian would be waiting for her, _expecting_ her, like he did every Monday night. But she couldn't go to him, not anymore, not when she was trying so hard to fix things with Neal, to do right by Henry, to be a happy family. She snubbed the hurt, forcing it back down into the pit in her belly where she stowed all of her repressed emotion, compartmentalizing like she'd been doing for the past 30 years. She swallowed down the wanton desire that thrummed at the edges of her heart, an ache that she refused to give in to, refused to let blossom into something dark and twisted and treacherous, urging her to go out the door and back into her pirate's arms.

Emma smiled at Neal despite the hollowness in her chest. "I thought I'd stay in tonight."

"Skippin' a week?"

Emma ran a finger along the lip of her bottle, thinking over her words before choosing them, trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince Neal that she was happy, that she was content, that she was in the place she'd always wanted to be.

She pushed herself up from the counter and walked over to the couch, her heart clenching with an indescribable emotion when she saw Henry and Neal sitting together. Father and son. A _family._ A family she'd never had and always wanted. "Nah, I think I'm done seeing Archie – I've gotten all I need out of therapy."

"You sure?" Neal asked, concern lacing itself in his tone, and he shot her a dubious look.

"Yeah. I have everything I need right here, with you and Henry. Isn't that right, kid?" She stood behind Henry and ruffled his hair, smiling when he brushed her hand off with mild irritation, giving her a look that whined _Moooooom. _

"Can we have a movie night and order pizza?" Henry looked at her with hopeful eyes, bright smile lighting up his face with a childlike innocence she wanted him to keep forever, one that she'd wanted to give to him – give to him with a _family_.

She shrugged, "I don't see why not."

"How about _Peter Pan?"_

Emma and Neal shot Henry matching looks of incredulity, neither able to immediately respond.

"I'm just kidding, Mom," Henry rolled his eyes with a grin, laughing internally at his own joke as he hopped up from his seat on the couch and ran over to the shelf, scanning over the movie titles with a finger.

Emma didn't find it funny. Not even a little bit. _Peter Pan _would only remind her of Neverland, and Neverland would only remind her of Killian, and that would lead down a dark and tempting path, one she didn't want to travel, scared of what she might find waiting for her at the end.

As Henry thumbed through their DVD collection, Emma sat down beside Neal, cozying up to him as she tucked her legs underneath her. She felt cold – she _always _felt cold – and she buried herself in his side, seeking his warmth, wanting him to chase the cold away, to appease the icy gust that spread over her.

But his warmth wasn't enough, wasn't the same, just wasn't quite _right_ – it was a placating warmth that soothed her skin, but it did nothing to assuage the chill that settled in her bones, in her chest, in her _heart. _

Neal, oblivious to Emma's emotional turmoil (_Killian would've noticed, _Emma mused bitterly, hating herself for the unbidden thought as it crept to the forefront of her mind), beamed at her, his eyes crinkling with his wide smile as he wrapped an arm around her and planted a kiss to the top of her head. "I'm glad you're doing better. I promise you I'll do whatever it takes to get you to trust me again. We can make this work, Emma, we can be a family. I know we can."

And oh, how her heart _ached _at the word_. _

_Trust._

"_Try something new, darling. It's called trust."_

Killian was everywhere, in everything – a constant, lingering reminder plaguing her thoughts, and she wanted to scream and cry because she _couldn't get him out of her fucking head._

Emma smiled sadly as she leaned into Neal's touch, seeking his warmth and finding none.

"Yeah," she lied, "me too."

* * *

_Tick-tock_

**5:47**

Killian hated clocks.

He waited expectantly in his room, blue eyes flicking to the clock every few minutes as 6 o'clock drew nearer, body buzzing with anticipation, fingers crawling with an unappeasable itch, needing to touch her, to feel her, to hold her close. He busied his restless fingers with the tedium of sharpening his hook, trying to ignore the bud of fear and anxiety that bloomed in his gut, morphing him into something unstable and ugly and dark.

_Tick-tock_

**5:54**

She'd be here, like she'd always been there, like she always _would _be there. Killian tried to convince himself, feigning a confidence he didn't feel, comforting himself with the illusion that she couldn't keep herself away from him, that she was drawn to him as he was to her, that what they shared _meant _something.

_Tick-tock_

**6:08**

So maybe she was running late – it was a brisk November and the weather was unseasonably cold, snow already starting to fall in the quaint town, slowing her down as she made her way to his ship. He whittled away at his attachment, the metal sharper than it'd been in centuries.

_Tick-tock_

**6:17**

Killian was now polishing the metallic hook, shining it for the first time since he could remember, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His eyes were focused far too intently on the gleaming metal, and the harsh glare of reflected light stung his eyes, causing them to water. Or, at least, that's what he told himself as he disregarded the ache in his heart – the anger, sadness, loneliness, and _agony_ that burrowed in his chest.

_Tick-tock_

**6:39**

It still wasn't too late. She might show up, suddenly changing her mind as she realized she _needed _Killian, much as he needed her, and that it wasn't just about the sex. Sure, what they had was complicated and messy and dishonest, but it was _theirs_ and it _meant _something. Emma would show up at any moment and hesitantly knock on his door, and he would open it with his smarmy, cocksure grin, and she'd throw herself in his arms and kiss him with the passion of a dying woman.

She'd be there, like she was always there, like she always would be there.

_Tick-tock_

**7:07**

He grabbed the damned clock from his nightstand as it counted the passing seconds, taunting and mocking him with each and every tick. He clutched it with trembling fingers as red-hot wrath ate at the edges of his vision, tunneling his focus on the bloody fucking ticking hands of that stupid bloody fucking clock. With a tortured yell, he angrily threw the offensive object across the room with an alarming strength, wanting nothing more than for that awful ticking to _stop_. It connected with the wall with a sickening crack, splintering into fragmented pieces as it fell to the floor.

_Tick-tock_

Killian hated clocks.


	4. Chapter 4

**Two Mondays.**

It'd been two Mondays since Emma last saw Hook (not that she was counting because that would mean she was thinking about her pirate, which she most certainly _was not doing_).

She looked down at her plate of food, nerves buzzing in her stomach, flooding her with a random influx of nausea, and she twirled her fork in the spaghetti with disinterest. Her skin crawled, stretched too tightly over her body, tingling with an itch she couldn't scratch, no matter how many times she dragged her fingernails across her skin. A sudden chill swept over her and she ran her hands anxiously on her arms in a vain attempt to scrub away the cold that spread through her body.

Neal cast her a cursory glance from across the table as he took another bite of food. "You feelin' all right? You haven't eaten much the past few days."

Emma jumped at the sound of his voice and squinted at him with confusion as her sluggish brain labored to process his words.

"Emma?" He laid his fork down and leaned his elbows on the table, eyes searching her face, scrutinizing her features, mentally assessing the peculiar change in her demeanor. "You okay?"

She forced a smile, the motion feeling foreign and unnatural.

When was the last time she'd smiled?

"Yeah, I'm fine – just not that hungry."

She tossed a look to Henry, and Emma's chest ached as she regarded her son, sitting awkwardly in his seat, fidgeting as he avoided their stares. All she ever wanted to do was give him a family – a mom and a dad like any other kid, a family who sat down together for dinner, who watched movies on the couch together, who went out for ice cream together, who laughed and smiled and cried and loved together.

But he didn't have that, didn't have the familiar, comfortable unity of mother, father, and child. He had… _this. _This awkward thing with tension so palpable it was suffocating, drowning her in its disease.

She'd thought family was supposed to be easy and come naturally, but this wasn't natural, wasn't family, wasn't _right. _Emma couldn't place her finger on it, couldn't pinpoint the thing that made it all so confounding and uncomfortable. There was just something _off_ about it, and Emma wanted to pull her hair out and weep and yell at it, scream it into compliance, bully it into submission so they could finally be a _happy family. _

_This was supposed to be easy, _supposed to be _happy. _

So why did it feel so wrong?

* * *

**Three Mondays.**

Emma laid in her shared bed with Neal as he pulled her close to him in his sleep, nuzzling his face in her hair. She cuddled against him, trying to find warmth and heat where there was none, and her heart sank. She slowly pried herself from his grasp and tucked her knees to her chest, fighting to fall asleep and erase the memories that played at the peripheries of her mind, little flashes of blue eyes and smarmy grins, soft touches and sinful lips. They tormented her, taunting her with a false reality that couldn't ever be, mocking her with the elusiveness of contentment.

She could be happy, she knew she could. It would all fall into place in a matter of time.

* * *

**Four Mondays.**

Emma sat in the dimly lit bar of _The Rabbit Hole,_ finding solace at the bottom of a bottle, escaping the penetrating, worried glances from Mary Margaret and David.

David, who had taken it upon himself to don the paternal role as he cornered her in the apartment, speaking to her delicately, as though she would shatter at a moment's notice. He'd asked personal queries, questioned her uncharacteristic despondency, carefully told her she should go back to her therapy appointments and talk to Archie.

And she wanted to, oh how she _ached_ with want to go back to her weekly appointments, to find the twisted, duplicitous sense of happiness and satisfaction that it brought her. But she _couldn't _and no one understood _why. _

It pissed her off, infuriated her, that after _28 years _of him not being there, of her being an orphan thinking her parents had abandoned her, David had the audacity to show up at her doorstep and offer fatherly advice, stepping into a role that he'd been absent from for decades. He had no right to tell her what to do or how to live her life, much less give her advice on _who_ she should be with.

She was sick of it, sick of them, all of them – Neal, Mary Margaret, David, Regina, Gold, Archie – everyone, all judgmental looks and probing questions, worried glances and hushed whispers.

Fuck them. Fuck them all.

She should just take Henry and leave, leave Storybrooke, leave all of this behind her and start over with her son – just Emma and Henry, mother and child, creating a new life for themselves away from the world, from the intrusive nature of her 'family', from the hurt and pain and treacherous memories that tainted this godforsaken town. Run away and never look back, run so she could escape her past and her memories, bottle up her emotions and tuck them away into that pit in her belly, ignoring them until they simply disappeared.

Take Henry and run, like she'd always run, like she always _would _run.

Because if there was one thing Emma Swan excelled at, it was running.

* * *

**Five Mondays.**

Emma picked Henry up from school and took him out to dinner, a mother and son date that she desperately needed, the one little beacon of light and happiness that brightened the shadows and eliminated the darkness.

They sat at _Granny's_ sipping from their hot cocoa, topped with whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon, and he laughed at one of her anecdotes. It was a beautiful sound, so honest and innocent, naïve and comforting, and Emma relished in the way it warmed her heart. If nothing else went right in her life, she at least had Henry. She always had Henry, always _would _have Henry, and that's all that really mattered, all that she needed. As long as she had Henry, she had a family, she had a home, and she could be happy.

If she didn't have Henry, she didn't have anything.

* * *

**Six Mondays.**

The sex was bad. Awful, even. She was hardly even interested in having sex anymore.

It wasn't Neal's fault, truly, it wasn't. He tried to please her, to make her come, to make her toes tingle and go numb with her release, to find that sweet spot that would make her see stars, to show her much he loved and cared for her.

But he used old tricks; the moves had worked on her years ago when they'd been together, but they did little to excite her now. They were different people, and they'd grown separately, grown apart, and what once made her smile, gave her pleasure, led her to her release, had changed. It wasn't that he lacked in talent or that his execution was poor – Neal was a skilled lover, Emma couldn't deny – but it just wasn't right, wasn't the same as it once was. Her heart wasn't in it, her body unresponsive, her own ministrations lackluster.

Emma had mastered the art of faking her pleasure, moaning his name, scratching her nails down his back, squeezing her thighs against him. She had Neal fooled – he only saw what he wished to see, blissfully ignorant to her deception, choosing to ignore the glaring signs that Emma wasn't satisfied, wasn't sated, wasn't _happy. _Neal was content in this illusion, and so she faked it, again and again, each time a little quicker than the last, simply wishing for it to be _over _so she could go to sleep.

Just fake it.

Fake it 'til you make it.

It was Emma's new life motto.

Because if she faked it enough, maybe she could disillusion herself into believing it, that _this _is what she wanted, that Neal was _who _she wanted, and that she was _happy. _Maybe she'd believe her own lie, fall prey to her own ruse, find her happiness if she told herself enough times that this _was what she always wanted_.

Fake it 'til you make it.

* * *

**Seven Mondays.**

It'd been seven Mondays since Emma last saw Hook.

_Still_ not counting – it was simply a measurement of time and _not _an indication that she missed her pirate, or that he plagued her thoughts as reminders of him popped up at the most inconvenient times in the most arbitrary of places.

Or, at least, that's was Emma told herself while she stood in front of the mirror as she appraised her reflection – putting the final touches on her makeup, flattening out her shirt, sucking in her gut, puffing out her chest, finding her most flattering angle. A few of the residents of Storybrooke were planning on gathering at _Granny's _tonight for a Christmas celebration, and Emma simply wanted to look her best for the party, and the thought that Killian might show up didn't cross her mind. Not even once.

In all probability, he wasn't even going to be in attendance – Christmas was a holiday of her realm, and he'd likely never even _heard _of it before. Besides, Killian wasn't much of a people person, much less a party person, so even if he _was_ aware of the celebration, he wouldn't go purely on principle.

Really though, of _course_ he wouldn't be there, because he knew _she _would be there, and Emma could safely assume that he wasn't exactly keen on the idea of seeing her again.

He might go, though, because maybe _he _knew that _she _knew he wouldn't go, so he _had _to go just to prove her wrong, to show her up, to make a fool out of her and let Emma know that he was doing just _fine _without her. Then again, he probably knew that she knew that he knew that she knew he would go simply to prove a point, and he was _counting _on the fact that she knew he'd show up, so he _wouldn't_ go to the party just so she'd be stewing in her seat as she waited for him to walk through the door, agonizing over her outfit and makeup to make sure she looked her very best.

Emma's head hurt.

She huffed out a sigh of frustration as she relaxed her posture, unhappy with her appearance, second-guessing her choice of attire, irritated by her seemingly inability to get her eyeliner just right on that _damn second eye_. It was an impossible task, an unachievable feat; a medal of commendation should be issued to those precious few people who were able to perfectly apply eyeliner equally to both eyes.

A person like Killian.

Emma never thought she'd be one to be attracted to a man in eyeliner, but damned if he didn't wear it well.

"You look great, babe," Neal said as he walked up behind her reflection, sneaking his arms around her waist. He planted a kiss to her cheek before he rested his chin on her shoulder, smiling at her through the mirror. "You're gonna blow 'em away at the party."

"Maybe we shouldn't go."

"Are you kidding? Henry's been looking forward to this for weeks! It's our first Christmas as a family – we should do something special."

There was that damned word again.

_Family._

Emma was beginning to doubt if she'd ever truly understand the concept of the word, wondering if the idea was simply a fanciful, unobtainable illusion. Her only family, the only family that truly mattered, was Henry. That bright-eyed little boy who loved this time of year, when everyone he loved would be together under the same roof, when the magic of this realm sparkled and twinkled and glowed with the love and merriment of the Christmas season. She couldn't let him down, couldn't back out of the party now.

She offered Neal a tight-lipped smile, the gesture not quite reaching her eyes, and leaned her head on top of his. "Yeah, you're right. Just give me a few minutes to finish up and we'll head out, okay?"

"Sounds great," he hugged her tightly, and for a brief moment, Emma felt a pang of loneliness and sadness at the arms that wrapped around her, warm and comforting, yet still somehow just _off, _just not quite right_. _

He slipped his arms away from her and left the room, leaving Emma to stand in the front of the mirror, observing her reflection, staring at a face that was slowly becoming a stranger to her, a ghost of the person she'd once been. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, her cheeks sullen and heavy, her brow tense and worried, her lips tight and strained.

It was in this moment that Emma allowed herself to open the vault in her memory, nervously turning the key in the lock as her heart pounded erratically in her chest, riddled with anticipation. She thumbed through the file of guarded memories, the precious moments in her life that she rarely allowed herself to revisit, fearful of the emotions they provoked. But she needed it, needed that memory, needed the reminder that there was something _more. _

And then she found it, that one perfect memory that filled her with a soothing warmth that chased away the icy chill in her bones, unfurling the fingers that clutched her heart in a brutal, debilitating grasp.

Blue eyes stared at her, filled with a plethora of affectionate emotion that she didn't want to dwell on, didn't want to decipher and understand. A lazy, lop-sided grin lit up his dangerously handsome face, half hidden in the recess of a pillow; dark hair disheveled and messy from the previous night's activities; toned body splayed on a bed, sheets hanging haphazardly off his torso; accented voice lilting in her ears.

He'd be there, like she knew he'd be there, like she'd _hoped _he'd be there, and then maybe his face, his voice, his smell wouldn't have to be a mere memory.

And then she smiled for the first time in weeks as she let herself reminisce, remembering a time when she'd been happy, a time when she knew what it meant to feel loved.

* * *

_**A/N:** This story is turning out to be a whole lot longer than I originally planned. Hopefully you guys stick around through the pain - my muse just thought that exploring Emma's emotional turmoil during this time was necessary. The bitter pain makes the end game all the more sweet, yes?_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N:** Hey, this chapter was kinda fun to write! It was a breath of fresh air, to say the least._

_Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks again for the OVERWHELMING support and encouragement I've received from you all both on this site and through my tumblr. It means more to me than you know, so thank you. You're all lovely and wonderful._

_As always, review are greatly appreciated and encouraged :) If you've stuck around for the ride thus far, I hope you're enjoying it!_

* * *

Killian clumsily roamed his room, his steps faltering as he stumbled against the haze of drunkenness, taking another swig from his flask. It'd been three bloody Mondays since he last saw his Swan, after she'd left his room in a huff, her gaze all piercing daggers, and her resentful look tore through him, slicing into his chest like a knife through warm butter. Despite it all, he still miserably clung onto the desperate hope that she would come to her senses and fall at his door, spouting words of apology, begging his forgiveness, recanting her harsh, spiteful declarations when she'd claimed that she felt _nothing _for him, that it was just _fucking_ and never anything more.

Yes, she'd be back, she'd realize that their last night together _meant _something. She wouldn't so easily dispose of their obscure relationship; she needed him, much as he needed her. Once she'd decide to stop being so bloody stubborn and resistant to the idea that a pirate could be trusted with her heart – that he wouldn't ever dream of hurting her, that there wasn't anything he wouldn't give to see her smile, to hear her laugh, to make her _happy_ – she'd mosey back to his ship and run into his arms.

Falling onto his bed with exhausted intoxication, he fell into a fretful sleep and his dreams turned cruel and dark, summoning a dormant part of him, bringing the darkness back to the surface as he fought for survival, regressing into old habits of selfishness and egocentricity. And _oh, _how he warred against the dark, lurid temptation as it whispered sweet promises of respite from this heartache, relieving him of the devastating emotions that ran rampant through him, luring him with empty assurances that the pain would _stop_ if only he would yield to the black abyss. It washed over him, drowning him in wave after wave of tumultuous emotion as they relentlessly crashed over him, tormenting him with a life that almost was, a dream he delicately held in the palm of his hand before it slipped through his searching fingers, hopelessly grasping at cold, empty air, as the fantasy of being with Emma bled out of his his hand. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think as the darkness enveloped him, swathing him in a choking fog of thick, cold air that beckoned him to submit and embrace its obscurity.

Every night, it came, and every night, he fought against it.

Until one morning, tired of fighting and drained of his resilience, he succumbed to the tainted allure of darkness and debauchery, waking from his slumber feeling empty and hollow – the bittersweet bliss of nothingness, bereft off all emotion barring self-sufficiency. He surrendered himself to his alter ego, his natural inclination for self-preservation tearing the reins out of his despairing grasp, breaking him free from Emma's hold on him, on his heart.

For the first time since he'd arrived back at Storybrooke with Emma and her family, he didn't wake as Killian Jones – he woke as Captain Hook.

* * *

On some idle Tuesday morning, the pirate roused from his slumber, his sleep disturbed by the angry, aching boom that pounded in his head. Wincing at the harsh glare of sunlight streaming in through the window, he lazily brought a hand to his face, shielding his eyes from the offensive brightness. The world spun as he shifted in the bed, his body aching from the previous night's binge, the bitter aftertaste of rum and regret coating his tongue, and his stomach stirred uneasily as it threatened it spill its contents.

Hook, ever the rum-drinking alcoholic, couldn't remember the last time he'd had a hangover, and it would be too soon if he never felt this awfulness again.

There a was grating knock at the door as knuckles rapped against the wood, the cacophony of irritating sounds ringing loudly in his ears, disturbing the migraine he was futilely trying to will away. Burying his head under the pillow to block out the world, he grumbled wretchedly to himself, praying to the gods that whoever this unwelcome intruder was would just _go away. _

After several short moments of blissful silence, he sighed contentedly at the reprieve, believing that the stranger had left. Almost as if on cue, the knock sounded out again, louder and more insistent, further irritating his sensitive ears and pounding head.

"Go away!" he shouted miserably, his voice sounding foreign in his ears, tone thick and gravely from lack of use.

"Hook, let me in before I break down the door," an accented, feminine voice demanded with a stern authoritativeness.

"Go. _Away_," he repeated, hissing through clenched teeth, good arm swatting at the door, as if to brush the vaguely familiar voice away.

"_Hook," _she uttered the syllable with irritation, "Don't test me. I'm in no mood to entertain your petulance."

Huffing out a mumbled response, he ignored her as he pressed himself further in the asylum of his bed, hiding from the woman. He heard a softly muttered curse before there was a distant shuffling, a light scraping against wood, and his door swung open with a violent bang, its hinges creaking from the abrupt motion. Peeking his head out from under his pillow, he slowly dragged his agitated gaze to the door, barely able to make out the blurry silhouette of Tinkerbell as she stuffed her wand in the waist of her pants.

She looked at him with impatience, tongue clucking as she stepped elegantly into the room, pirouetting steps and nimble feet scarcely making a sound with her graceful movements.

"Really? You're still in bed at this hour? Tell me, do you even know what _day _it is?" she derided him, judgment evidencing itself on her face as her forehead crinkled slightly.

"Tuesday," he sneered, irritated brow arching, nose scrunching with defensiveness at her condescension. "Now leave me be with my misery, fairy."

"Oh, _enough_ already!" she let out an exasperated sigh with a roll of her eyes as she dropped her hands. Giving him a severe glare, she pointed an accusing finger towards him, hunching over as she stalked to his bed, trying to appear intimidating despite her petite stature and genial nature. "I have _had_ it with your self-pitying and sulkiness; I'll not let you wither away and die in here. Get your lazy self out of that bed and get dressed – you're coming home with me."

Hook squinted at her, mouth set with irascibility at her attempt to tyrannize and bully him into submission. "Apparently you've forgotten how it works on my ship."

"Yes, yes, yes: 'I make the orders, and you follow them'," she said in an offensively humorous interpretation of Hook's voice, and he scowled at her as she mocked him, ridiculing his 'golden rule'. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but it would seem you don't have a crew to boss around anymore, _Captain." _

If looks could kill, Tink would be a smoldering pile of ash as he glowered at her with burning blue eyes, hating her for disturbing his sleep, for breaking into his room and reprimanding him like a misbehaved child. "I'm not some Lost Boy that needs your mothering, Tink. If I recall correctly, that didn't end so well for you the last time you tried."

She waved a dainty hand at him, physically dismissing his words as she swatted them out of the air with annoyance. "If you mean to insult me until I leave, it won't work. I've known you for hundreds of years, Hook. I know all your tricks and they don't work on me." Hands clenching into tight fists at her sides, she leveled him with a commanding look, threatening and insistent. "Now get _out _of that bed, or so help me, I'll make you myself."

"I'd like to see you try," he challenged with a wicked smile, a twinkle in his eye, and he nestled himself further into his mattress, purposefully drawing out the action in a terribly juvenile obstinacy, making it known that he had no plans on going _anywhere _with the tiny woman.

"You're insufferable," Tink sighed with an exasperated roll of her eyes and she stalked to his bed, hands fisting in his sheets as she roughly yanked them away, exposing his skin to the harsh bite of cold air. Hook curled in on himself reactively, desperately seeking the last vestiges of warmth before they dissipated, goosebumps instantly rising on his skin.

"You bloody bitch!" he roared at her as he shot up in the bed, blue eyes glinting dangerously as he leveled her with his gaze, pouring all the disdain and lethality he could muster into his scowl. He lamented when she didn't flinch at his harsh retaliation; in fact, she looked _bored, _an irritated crease between her brows as she squinted at him with a frown, arms defiantly folded across her chest, and her ambivalence at his outburst pissed him off, blood boiling with rage as he shook uncontrollably.

His ire was quickly replaced with uneasiness as his head swam with nausea at his sudden movement, screaming at him for moving from his lying position, and the room tilted on its axis as gravity altered its pull and tugged him in every which direction, causing him to heavily slump against the headrest in defeat.

"You are without a doubt the absolute grumpiest man I have ever dealt with," Tink muttered as she angrily opened his armoire, thumbing through his wardrobe.

Rolling his head against the paneling to look at her, Hook shot her a bitter grin, dripping with virulent loathing. "You're welcome to leave. The door's right there – don't let it hit you on your way out, love."

"The only way you'll get me out of your room is if you come with me," she retorted over her shoulder, barely casting him a sideways glance as she draped a pair of pants over her arm.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're coming onto me. Sorry, love, but fairies are too delicate for my tastes," he taunted her, a sinfully arrogant lilt to his voice

Tink snorted at his impudence. "Don't flatter yourself. I've known you too long to be foolish enough to fall into bed with you. Gods know what kind of diseases you've contracted." Her cheeks puffed out as she let out a long, frustrated sigh, shoulders slumping with agitation. "Do you own _anything _besides leather? Really, Hook, if you plan on staying in Storybrooke, you must update your wardrobe."

"And who says that I wish to stay in this bloody town, hmm? For all you know, I could've been planning on sailing off this morning before you so rudely barged into my room."

"Oh, hush – if you were going to leave Storybrooke, you would've been gone weeks ago," she scoffed at him as she closed the door to his dresser and turned to face him, her countenance bored and weary. "We both know why you haven't left, and that's the very same reason why you won't ever leave."

"I've no idea what you're talking about, sweetheart," he replied in an even tone, too even, as he schooled his features, donning an expression of impassiveness and stoicism he didn't feel.

"Of course you don't," she jeered, tossing a handful of clothes at him. They smacked his chest, an errant sleeve lightly smacking the side of his face before falling to his lap, but he ignored it as he settled her with a malicious stare, remaining silent as he stewed over her words, sending a pin-prick of pain ricocheting in his core at the reminder of _her_, the person he'd been blocking from his thoughts for the better part of a week. "Don't make me dress you. I may have lost my wings, but I still have enough magic left to taint your precious manhood with a horrible affliction."

He startled at her threat. "You wouldn't," he breathed, looking at her with wide eyes, aghast that she would threaten something so vile, but his horror was quickly chased away with smugness as he bit out, "It's not the fairy way."

"Do you really want to test that theory?"

The pirate muttered a noncommittal response, gruffly grabbing the shirt from his lap as he angrily thrust his arms through the opening. Tink smirked, disgustingly _pleased _with herself at Hook's reluctant compliance, unwilling to risk… _that _just for the sake of stubbornness. Granting her a loathing sneer, a flash of white peeking out behind his lips with a sardonic smile, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood as he wormed into his leather pants.

"Now, really, was that so hard?" Tink asked with a quirk of her brow as Killian shrugged into his jacket, fixing the collar as it folded against his neck.

"Can't you go bother someone else? Don't you have happily ever afters that need attending to?" he retorted as he snatched his hook from the bedside table, sliding the attachment into its holster, turning it until he heard a 'click'.

"And what is it you think I'm doing here?" Drawing her arms across her chest, hip jutting out to the side, chin tilting up with defiance, she settled him with an exasperated look.

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Has all the rum caused you to go daft? I'm trying to help you get your happy ending, you blubbering child," she replied, motioning vaguely to him with a wave of her hand.

He gave her a bitter grin, darkness shrouding his handsome features. "Haven't you heard? I'm a villain, love, and villains don't get happy endings."

Tink's face softened, the tightness of her agitation fleeing at his defeated words, and she spoke gently, "You're no villain, Killian, not anymore. You're simply misguided, and I mean to set you back on the right track."

"And what, pray tell, is that path? Do you have some pixie dust hidden up your sleeve that will bring me to my True Love? In case you haven't noticed, darling, the Lady Swan has made it abundantly clear that she does not feel as I do," he couldn't help the hostility that permeated in his tone, his poorly contained feelings of rejection and inadequacy coiling in his words.

Exhaling a long breath, she appraised him with a wary eye, contemplating his drastic change of demeanor, and he furtively averted her gaze, terrified that she'd look at him like someone to be pitied, afraid to let her see the tempest of turbulent emotion that brewed in his vivid, intense eyes.

"Stow the dramatics, Hook. I'll not tolerate you feeling sorry for yourself. You're perfectly capable of achieving happiness without Emma; you're just refusing to allow yourself the opportunity. _That's _why I'm here."

"And why would the lovely Green Fairy do anything for the deplorable pirate?" he attempted to sound jocular and apathetic, an unfeeling quip, but the undercurrent of skepticism crept into his tone, exposing his dubiety of her sincerity, wondering why _anyone _would go to such lengths to see him happy because he was a pirate, he was a _villain_, and people didn't just offer aid to his kind out of the goodness of their hearts.

"Because, like it or not, I consider you my friend," she smiled weakly at him, eyes bright and shining with earnestness for a brief moment before she suddenly turned serious and determined, "and I'll not have you be brooding and miserable if there's something I can do to help."

"I never asked for nor wanted your help, fairy," he said caustically, his pride and ego injured at the assumption that she thought him needing help and guidance, coddling him like a sick babe, a man who lost himself to misery, a man who was _weak. _

"That's the magic of friendship, Hook – you needn't ask for help in order to receive it."

Walking up to him, Tink placed a warm hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently as she tried to reassure him, extending an offer of friendship and camaraderie. Finally able to meet her gaze, he was greeted with an intensely saccharine look as she wordlessly waited for his acceptance and approval. It was overwhelming for a moment, the notion that someone out there cared for him and his well being, and to be quite honest, the pirate wasn't sure how he'd felt about it. He wanted to be bothered by it, by her assumption that he needed a _friend, _that he was a lonely and depraved and wicked man in need of guidance and companionship. But he couldn't deny the part of him that was elated that he meant something to someone, that he _mattered – _he was more than a means to an end, a quick release, a body to warm a bed, a toy to be used and tossed carelessly to the curb_. _

Nodding slightly, Killian ran his tongue along his teeth as he raised his eyebrows high on his forehead and dropped her knowing gaze, reluctantly accepting her figurative olive branch, grabbing it with a fervor he hadn't been expecting, hadn't known even _existed. _And he clung onto it, the idea that someone believed in him, that someone valued him – saw his _worth_.

"Now make yourself presentable and come with me; if you're not going to take care of yourself, you've given me no choice but to do it for you. You'll stay with me until you're a functional, sober person again."

"I resent that! Sobriety is drastically overrated, love," he said with a quick wink as he shuffled past her, brushing against her shoulder.

Tink's nose scrunched, her face contorting with disgust as she made the mistake of breathing through her nose. "_Ugh_! What is that foul smell?" She craned her neck as she searched for the source, her eyes growing wide with repugnance as she stared at Killian. "Is.. is it you?" She leaned into him cautiously, sniffing quickly before choking on the fumes, immediately yanking her head away from him as she fanned the air in front of her face. "It _is_! When did you last _bathe_?"

"Oh, come off it, surely it can't be that terrible. Quit being such a prude – you love my musk."

"Are you being serious? Have you smelled yourself lately? You reek with the foulest stench I've ever come across, and that includes all my years with the Lost Boys!" she accused in a nasally voice, lithe fingers pinching her nose.

Responding with an offended humph, Killian ignored her jab and leaned his shoulder against hers, turning his head to press his mouth close to her ear. "I'll come with you on one condition – you tell no one that I'm staying with you. The last thing I need is rumors of our dalliance floating about this town."

"What, are you scared your Emma will get jealous and never want to see you again?" she retorted sarcastically, lips pulled back tight in a dry, humorless smile.

"If people were to find that you were housing a pirate in your humble abode, they'd look at you with the same disdain they give me," he admitted quietly, too late to realize the tenderness and consideration that the words revealed, and he quickly compensated for his lapse of judgment with indignation. "And I'd hate to tarnish my reputation as a swashbuckler who's in need of assistance from a bloody _fairy_. I have a notoriety I'm obliged to uphold!"

Staring at him for a long moment in quiet contemplation, he saw something flash in her eyes as she assessed his words before pressing her forefinger and thumb together before dragging them across her closed lips, sealing the proverbial zipper. With a curt nod of his head, he moved to hold the door for her, waving his hook towards the exit. "Ladies first."

"Since when did you become a gentleman?" she questioned dubiously as she skipped towards the door, footsteps dancing with an ethereal grace.

"I'm always a gentleman."

Giving him a skeptical look, she slid past him as she exited his cabin, and he sauntered after her, toying with the end of his hook as he watched her bounce up the stairs. She hesitated briefly at the top as she tossed her head over her shoulder, eyes flicking down to where he stood.

"For what it's worth, I think Emma is being a damn bloody fool. She's the only one who can't see she cares for you." And with that, she almost bashfully turned her back to him and hurriedly walked out of his line of vision, disappearing on the floor above him.

He smiled inwardly to himself, a sad longing tugging in his chest at the reminder of her, visions of blonde hair and blue-green eyes dancing in his head. Barring the thoughts from his memory, he followed the fairy, and finally, after weeks of misery and drowning in his own self-loathing, pitying himself for his misfortune as he relinquished control to his infamous piratical persona, Killian felt something he hadn't thought possible – he felt hope.

His Swan may have deserted him, leaving him behind so that she could seek a comfortable life with Henry and Neal, becoming the family he'd known she always wanted, but now a new savior was born – an unassuming fairy without her wings, hand tearing through the thick veil of the darkness and clinging onto him as she dragged him to the surface, breathing life back into him as she cast away the dark and brought him back to the light, beating down the villain and reviving the man that lay hidden beneath.

And maybe, just maybe, Killian comforted himself, he would get his happy ending after all.

* * *

_**A/N**: I just wanted to clarify (because I know how this chapter could've been read) that** I in no way, shape, or form plan on having Hook and Tink bump uglies or fall in love**. They're one of my brotps and nothing more. I merely wanted poor Killy to have a friend, have SOMEONE, and I figured she was the most suiting._

_That is all._

_Also, fun fact: whenever they refer to it as a 'happy ending' on the show, my mind goes STRAIGHT to the gutter. Seriously. The last line of this chapter had me giggling like a schoolgirl because I'm secretly 12 years old and a 'happy ending' is a euphemism for sex. While writing the line, I basically read it as "yeah... Hook's gon' get laid."_

_Teehee. _


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N:_**_ So this took forever a day to write, and for that, I apologize. I won't lie - I really struggled with this chapter. It turned into a beast with around 10k words, so I had to cut it down into separate chapters. For those of you who follow me on tumblr, because of the restructuring, the little smutty 'sneak peek' I posted won't happen until the next chapter._

_Anyway, thanks again for all of those lovely reviews, follows, and favorites! Your guys' endless support of this fic will never cease to blow me away, and I truly appreciate all of your kinds words, both here and on tumblr._

_Thanks for your patience with this update. Enjoy the ride :)_

_(and hey, look at that timing! Posting this update on Colin's birthday. Let's just pretend I planned it this way, okay?)_

* * *

Her limbs felt too heavy. The pull of gravity tugged at her, dragging her down and dulling her movements, forcing her body to move with a lumbering stiffness as she wandered around the room. Neal trailed closely behind her, attached to her by an invisible tether, always keeping her within arm's reach. It felt unnatural: the innocuous brushes of his hand against the small of her back, the way he intuitively leaned into her, the cursory glances filled with love – a tainted, broken love.

He was well-meaning, deriving his own comfort in those small touches, but it set her on edge, a small voice in the back of her mind shrieking with disapproval as she delicately pulled away from him. Emma wanted to scream and shout, pull her hair out and _cry_, because it wasn't right, wouldn't ever be right, not after all they'd been through. Instead, she swallowed her voiceless sob and forced a smile, a tedious action plastered on her face as she floated from conversation to conversation, dabbling in idle small talk with the residents of Storybrooke. Simply going through the motions, pretending that she was happy, that she was content, that she finally had the family she'd always wanted.

Fake it 'til you make it.

Emma was tired of faking it, utterly and completely _exhausted_ with maintaining the façade of normalcy, of contentment and satisfaction. She wasn't sure how much longer she could keep up the charade.

Neal moved to stand by her side, hand smoothing across the curve of her back as he pulled her close to him, bright smile shining on his face as they spoke with the dwarves. What the conversation was about, Emma couldn't say, her mind preoccupied with flashes of blues eyes, the glint of shining metal, the shadow of a familiar smirk.

Despite her best efforts, her distracted eyes flicked to the door every couple of seconds, expectantly waiting for _him, _nerves alight with buzzing anticipation and anxiety as she listened with feigned interest at the excited murmurs and hushed tones talking animatedly about god-knows-what.

He'd come. She _knew _he'd come because he _had _to come.

Oh, what she wouldn't _give _to see him just one more time – the dangerous flash of his storming eyes; the graceful swagger to his steps; the mischievous, playful smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. Just one peek, one quick look to make sure that he was okay, that he was all right, that he was _happy_. Because if he was happy, then all of this had been worth it – the heartache, the emptiness, the misery – and she could go home with Neal knowing that her pirate was better off without her, that he benefitted from their separation, that she'd made the right decision.

Emma refused to acknowledge the dark, twisted, selfish part of her that hoped he was just as miserable as she was.

A burly laugh erupted deep from Happy's belly, distracting her from her musings and bringing her back to the present conversation, reminding her that she'd nearly forgotten to fake the appropriate social cue. Tight smile tugging at her lips, she forced a chuckle at the witty anecdote the dwarf told, wincing as the sound rang unnaturally in her ears. She prayed no one would notice the peculiar octave to her laugh, the tightness surrounding the sound with her discomfort.

No one did.

One eye steadily trained on the entrance of Granny's, she impatiently waited for her pirate to suddenly appear in the doorway, sauntering into the establishment with his usual cool self-assurance, moving with a suave grace that she desperately missed. Glancing anxiously at the clock, her heart seized painfully in her chest, a dull ache that threaded through her body, and she briefly worried that she'd been wrong, that he had no intention of making an appearance at the party, that she'd drastically over analyzed his thought process and motivations.

Sadness settled over her and she tried to suppress a shudder at the emptiness that lingered in her core with her crushing disappointment.

_He wasn't coming._

Neal looked at her through the corner of his eye, concern knitting his brow as he ran a soothing hand on her arm. She tried not to bristle at his touch, body screaming for her to run, to bat away the hand that tried to comfort her and only succeeded in furthering her distress and anguish.

Opening her mouth to speak, lame excuse for her despondency perched on the tip of her tongue, her words were silenced by a soft ringing of bells. Attention drawn to the sound, her green eyes flitted to the opening door, and her heart skipped a beat as Killian ducked inside.

The sight of him stole her breath away – his tousled, always messy hair; his partially buttoned shirt half-obscured by his freshly pressed vest and long black coat; dark wash jeans clinging to him unforgivingly. To say that he looked good would be a drastic understatement, and there weren't words to describe the feelings that stirred low in her belly at seeing him again. Her dreams and memories of him did the pirate little justice.

An honest, genuine smile threatened to part her lips, a light fluttering buzzing in her chest as she looked at him longingly, not realizing until now just how much she _missed _him. Missed his heated touch, his musky smell, his intense eyes, his smug smirk – hell, she even missed his _leather._

Standing to the side, Killian held the door open as he extended his arm, and Emma's stomach lurched and twisted into uncomfortable knots as dainty fingers carefully wrapped around the proffered hand. She narrowed her eyes as Tink came into view, a sudden flare of jealousy blossoming in her core as her pirate ushered the fairy inside, leaning close as he whispered something into her ear.

She had no right to be angry, this Emma knew, but it did nothing to assuage the mounting rage that ensnared her heart. It consumed her with overwhelming jealousy and possessiveness, her world narrowing to the haunting sight of Killian lightly pressed against the other woman, hand gently resting on the small of her back as he guided her through the crowd.

It took every ounce of her willpower to tear her eyes away from the vision of Killian and Tink; the image burned into her retinas as she fought against the wave of angry nausea and pain that stabbed at her heart. Her chest ached with the damning realization that he'd moved on_, _replaced her, found someone else. He was _happy. _Just like she'd wanted, what she _thought _she wanted.

How very wrong she had been because seeing him in the presence of the other woman tore at her in ways she hadn't known possible – a sick, horrible realization that _this _is how he must've felt for all those months when she'd sneak onto his ship, sharing stolen hours together in a mess of sweat and skin and release, pretending for the briefest of instances that he was hers and she was his. She'd never considered how utterly _devastating _it must have been for Killian to see her with Neal the following day, passing them by in the street as they strode hand-in-hand.

Emma felt like the worst kind of person.

"Emma?" Neal nudged her gently to capture her attention. "You okay?"

"What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just spaced out for a second. Work's really been stressing me out lately…" she lied, briefly marveling at how easily everyone seemed to fall for her deception, too eager to believe her assertions of 'fine' and 'happy' and 'just stressed'. Everyone, that is, except for a certain pirate captain who was far too perceptive for his own good.

Grinning mischievously, Neal moved his mouth to her ear and whispered, "Whaddaya say you and me work out that stress at home?"

Fighting against the spark of disgust, Emma's nose threatened to scrunch at the idea of intimacy with Neal. More faking, more pretending, and dammit, it was _exhausting;_ she just wanted a break, a reprieve from all the pretense. Just for _one fucking night. _She managed a weak smile, softly shaking her head as she lightly pushed him away.

"Not tonight. We really shouldn't leave the party yet."

Brow furrowing as he looked at her, Neal's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. He gently pulled her away from the dwarves' conversation, cornering her to the side of the room, hidden from probing eyes and nosey ears. "Is everything okay, Emma?"

Her neck prickled with sensation, the fine hairs standing up on end as she felt the heat of a gaze searing into the back of her head, a familiar tingle trickling down her spine.

It was _him_.

_He_ was looking at her, boring her with his stare. Every cell in her screamed for her to turn around and meet the challenge in his eyes, look at the vibrant blue that shone brilliantly in the room with a tempest of storming emotion. She desperately missed the way he used to look at her – a thousand unspoken feelings swimming in the depths of his gaze, like she was his _everything_ but now she was _nothing_.

"Would you stop asking me that?" Emma snapped, a bit more harshly than she'd intended to. She was irritated by all the probing questions, even more irritated with herself for her damned indecision and conflicting feelings. Shrugging out of Neal's hold, she broke free from the confining feel of his arm draped around her. "Everything is _fine. _Henry's having a really good time hanging out with everyone and I don't want to make him go home just yet."

And it was true – he honestly _was _enjoying himself, sitting in a booth with Regina and Archie, wide eyes glowing brightly with the naiveté and purity of youthful innocence and delight as he thumbed through the pages of some new book he'd received. For a moment, Emma forgot her pain, the ache in her chest dissipating as her heart smiled, reveling in the sight of her son's happiness, clinging onto the enraptured look on his face as he lost himself in the words the story told.

"I meant is everything okay with _us." _Just like that, the moment was gone, her fleeting happiness swept away by the defeated, almost scared tone of Neal's voice.

"Of course it is. Why wouldn't it be?"

He shrugged a shoulder, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot as he anxiously rubbed the back of his neck. "You just… I dunno, you seem… _off. _Things are… different."

"Neal, we were together over ten years ago; we aren't the same people we were back then. We have a _child _now. Obviously things are going to be different."

He nodded, eyes staring listlessly in the distance, hands fisting into the pockets of his coat. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I just…" he started, voice falling silent as he threw her a cautious glance, wary about her tense mood. "I just want you to be happy, Emma. I want us to be happy."

Emma closed her eyes as the beginnings of a migraine stirred behind tired eyes, the unrelenting sting of _his _penetrating gaze a lingering reminder that he was here, watching her, watching _them._ Pinching the bridge of her nose, she tried to will the headache away, suddenly enervated and mentally drained.

"Can we not talk about this right now? It's Christmas and I just want to relax." Sighing heavily as she dropped her hand, she looked at Neal with desperation, pleading with him to listen to her and drop the issue. She paced agitatedly, subtly flipping their positions so she stood facing the brooding pirate looming in the distance.

She couldn't help herself, eyes looking past Neal to the dark silhouette of Killian's form sitting hunched over the bar, hand in midair as he swirled his tumbler, taking occasional sips as he flagrantly stared at her. Her stomach twisted into tight knots as she held his gaze for the barest of moments, unbidden memories of their last night together tormenting her with her own deception. Something dark and sinister flashed in his eyes before he blinked and broke the spell, gaze moving to stare indolently at the amber liquid in his glass, purposefully avoiding looking at her. Her heart stuttered at his sudden aversion.

Neal reached out for her and Emma sidestepped his advance, dodging out of his hold as his hand moved with hesitant trepidation towards her. Staring for a moment at his rejected offer, hand hanging cold and empty in the air, he closed it into a tight fist as he brought it to his mouth, tapping at his lips as he lost himself in thought.

"Sure, Emma, whatever you want. We'll talk about it later, okay?" His voice was quiet with the admission of defeat, his eyes sad, his smile tight-lipped and weak.

She was being unfair to him, Emma _knew _she was being unfair, that he deserved better, deserved someone who would love him the way he loved her. That wasn't her, not anymore, because her heart belonged to someone else. It was a truth she was begrudgingly beginning to admit, a truth realized just a little bit too late, a truth she wasn't sure she was ready to accept.

"Would you excuse me? I just remembered I gave Hook some docking permits like a month ago that he was supposed to fill out. I'm gonna go ask him about it while he's here." She was gone before she'd finished her sentence, gently nudging past Neal and his hushed murmurs of "yeah, okay", ignoring the hurt and confused look on his face as she left.

All she saw was her pirate, crouched over the counter, fingers drumming along the lip of his glass. Emma's head spun with dizzying confusion as she stumbled towards him, body simultaneously moving towards and away from him, tugging her in two different directions.

_No, stop_.

But her legs wouldn't listen, moving of their own accord as she ambled closer to Killian.

Her heart thudded erratically, butterflies fluttering violently in her gut, and she found herself standing stupidly behind him, suddenly uncertain of what to do, what to _say. _The heat radiated off of his body in waves, blanketing her with a warmth she'd been starved of for _weeks_, the perpetual cold that ravaged her body finally appeased. She shivered as it swept across her skin, goosebumps traveling in its wake as she basked in his presence, the calming nature of his aura, the way it just felt _right_.

Screwing her eyes shut, her fingers tingled with restraint as she resisted the urge to reach out to him, to card her fingers through his raven hair, to push her body flush against his, to feel him on every inch of her as she wrapped herself in his essence, a cocoon of happiness and warmth and belonging. Her heart beat so loudly, she was sure he'd hear her, the irregular rhythm giving her away.

Inhaling a shaky breath, Emma tried to soothe her nerves, the itch that danced on her skin at his close proximity.

_Bad_ _idea_.

His scent swarmed her, the heady smell of the sea and a sweet spiciness that was uniquely Killian invaded her nostrils. It sent a pang of desire and want and _longing _shooting to her core. Mouth suddenly dry, her tongue scraped against the roof of her mouth as she struggled to find words, a thousand ideas playing in her mind in a muddled cacophony of nonsense.

"Hi," she finally managed, the single uttered syllable almost proving too much for her to speak, the lump in her throat choking her.

She winced as she noticed the way he bristled, posture brisk and shoulders stiffening as her voice floated to his ears. Pivoting on the chair, he turned to face her, movements unnatural and harsh, body set defensively, as if bracing for an oncoming attack. He avoided her stare, gaze briefly flicking down to observe her form. Something sparked behind his eyes, a flash of yearning misery and dormant emotion belying the stoicism and cold set to his face. As quickly as it'd appeared, the emotion vanished as he schooled his features into a practiced look of apathy and impassiveness.

Jaw clenching, he regarded her with a curt nod of his head. "Emma."

She flinched as her name rolled off his tongue, spoken harshly as an insult, cold and calculated in its ironically impersonal usage.

A pregnant paused lingered between them, and she warred against the compulsion to fidget under the inexplicable tension that flowed between them, unspoken words and feelings lingering heavily in the air, choking her with its palpability. Playing with her fingers, she idly stared at her feet, unable to speak, unable to _look _at him. She didn't trust herself not to cry and throw herself in his arms, telling him how very _sorry _she was and how very _wrong _she'd been to leave.

"Was there something you wanted?" his tone was cool and even, bereft of his usual mirth, the dance to his words as they fell from an amused smirk. It was heartbreaking.

"You… you look good," she said with a small smile, moving to sit beside him, folding her hands together as she rested them on the countertop.

"It's hard to look as strikingly handsome in this strange attire, but I make do with what's been given to me." He gave her a wicked grin before tossing back his drink, swallowing the remaining alcohol in a long swig, sighing as the rum burned down his throat.

Emma's eyes darted between Killian and the fairy standing off in center of the room, a burst of jealousy blooming in her chest.

"Seems like you're doing well for yourself." And she tried to keep the envy from seeping into her words, morphing her tone into something dark and hostile, but she couldn't help herself, couldn't help the undercurrents of loathing that coiled bitterly around her tongue.

Brow perched high on his forehead, Killian looked down at her with a slight squint, a small turn of his head. "You sound surprised."

"Well, yeah. I mean, I just figured-" Emma began, words cut short by a dark, humorless laugh.

"Figured what? That I'd be wallowing in self-pity and misery because you left me? Sorry to disappoint you, darling, but you seem to have drastically over-estimated your effect on me," he bit out with a vicious glint in his eyes, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. Reaching over the counter, he grabbed the bottle of rum, deftly screwing off the cap before refilling his glass.

"N-no, that's not what I meant," she stammered, tripping over her words as anxiety coursed through her body, cheeks tingling with the burn of a flush. "I-I just meant that I never would've guessed… y'know… _you and Tink." _She offered with a wave of her hand, vaguely motioning to the fairy.

Blue eyes following the movement of her hand with questioning irritation, Killian clenched his jaw as he ground his teeth together. He looked confused for a moment as he observed Tinkerbell before dawning realization registered on his features, an amused, self-satisfied grin pulling at his lips. Tonguing his cheek, he leveled her with a penetrating stare, eyes burning with something dark and sinister.

"And what of it, hmm? Would that displease you?"

"What? No, of course not," she vehemently shook her head, pulling her jacket more tightly around her, suppressing a shiver at the intensity of his gaze. "I'm happy for you. You guys… you're good together."

He hummed to himself, carefully deliberating her words, eyes scanning over her face. "You're a liar, and a bloody terrible one at that."

"Excuse me?"

"You can't fool me, love. I see the way you're looking at her, the way you're looking at me," he whispered as he ducked his head closer to hers, the sweet smell of rum clinging onto his breath. "It's a look I've grown all too familiar with every time you ran back to Neal."

"That's not fair, Hook."

With a small shake of his head, he scoffed as he pulled away from her. "Do you truly intend on lecturing me about _fairness, _Emma? Because I can assure you, the grievances against you are far greater than those against me."

_Ouch._

Nervously tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear, Emma squirmed in her seat, his sudden antagonism catching her off guard. In truth, she knew she should've figured that their reunion would be anything but warm and welcoming, her harsh dismissal of him not so easily forgiven, but it was no less painful, the hollow ache in her chest clenching at his words.

"I'm just trying to be friendly. Why are you making this so difficult?"

"Have you ever considered the possibility that maybe, just _maybe_, I don't wish to be '_friendly'_? That perhaps I want absolutely nothing to do with you?" he seethed at her, a familiar darkness corrupting his features.

She was silent for a moment, dithering between feeling hurt and angry, feeling guilty and culpable, small and ashamed. Emma was tired of hurting.

"Fine. Tell me to leave and I will," she challenged as she folded her arms across her chest, pointing her chin at him in defiance.

He leveled her with a deadly look, burning wrath and ire pooling in his eyes as he glowered at her, hating her for so easily calling his bluff. Leaned back casually in his seat, Killian ran a hand along his jaw, gaze transiently moving to Tink before he sighed heavily, his previous wrath forgotten.

"In regards to your earlier concern about the fairy-" Hook began when Henry abruptly cut between them, grabbing Emma's hand as he pulled her away.

"Mom! Come check out this book Dr. Hopper got for me! I wanna read it with you!"

Emma startled at the interruption before regarding her son with a wide smile, wrapping her fingers around his hand as she rose from her seat. "Sure, I'd love to."

She shot Killian an apologetic glance filled with an unspoken promise of _"we're not done with this conversation"_. He lightly toasted the air, the amber liquid sloshing as he waved his glass, sending her off with a terse grin.

Tugging at her hand, Henry led his mother to the booth across the room, voice loud with his excitement. "It's so cool! It's about True Love. And it's got pirates and princesses and giants and sword fights. They even made a movie about it!"

Emma gaped incredulously at him for a moment, her steps faltering as she pieced the puzzle together. "Are… are you talking about _The Princess Bride_? Archie got you _that_?"

"Yeah, that's the one! After we read the book, can we _please _watch the movie for family date night?"

Something pulled in Emma's gut, constricting and uncomfortable, a coalescence of the grim reminder of their broken family and the haunting echo of a painfully soothing voice, the endearment floating to her ears amidst the haze of her guilt.

"_As you wish."_


End file.
